


The Phoenix and the Sphinx

by Nearfisc



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Addiction, Eventual Dubcon, Gellert is a cheery sadist, Gilded Cage, Grindelwald makes his own Happy Place and it involves Bad Times For Newt, Hurt Newt Scamander, Hurt/Comfort, Legilimency, M/M, Mindfuck, Newt suffers, Rape/Non-con Elements, Slow Burn, Starvation, Violence, but Newt does NOT want the comfort, eventual body horror, eventual gramander, fictional drug use, lord forgive me for I am actively sinning, one way affection
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-12
Updated: 2017-09-05
Packaged: 2018-10-03 04:03:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 5
Words: 14,934
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10235471
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nearfisc/pseuds/Nearfisc
Summary: Seeking information on Graves and the missing Obscurial, Newt gets too close to Grindelwald and is instead captured himself.Things don't go very well for poor Newt.





	1. Starvation

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Nami](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nami/gifts).



> This is my second fanfic ever and my first (intended) series, so please please please let me know if I've slipped up, especially on something related to tagging/AO3 organization.
> 
> I dedicate this and all future GrindelNewt works to @firebyfire, who dragged me into this ship  
> I also wrote this because I got tired of how Gellert is constantly portrayed in fanfic as some easily-defeated psychopath,  
> so LEMME TELL YOU 'BOUT MY BOY GRINDELWALD: intelligent, charismatic, organized, powerful, determined, manipulative, sadistic, and Still Not Over His Ex. (I also imagine him with an acceptable haircut, so get on my level.)
> 
> ...and, because I'm a huge slut for captivity themes and being able to get into the Helpless Headspace, I'm going to tell you about him through the context of Newt Scamander.

Newt ached.

Everything had gone wrong.

When he had decided to investigate, he thought he was following a cold trail- a place Grindelwald may or may not have used, and in either case, had been empty for months. He was hoping only for a hint, an imprint in the air, a glimmer of residual magic that might help point the way to the possibility of closure to the mystery of what happened to the former Percival Graves. There was no point in wishing that the unfortunate man might still be alive. Yet, knowing more pieces of the puzzle might be beneficial in solving another mystery- Newt’s quiet, endearing research into the Obscurial that he knew had contact with Graves, or, at the very least, the man wearing Graves’ skin.

The young Scamander was convinced that the obscurus from New York still existed, somewhere, attached to whatever remained of the human host who housed it. He kept this conviction to himself. When MACUSA came calling, he played off his abilities with humility. They gave up on asking for his help and he asked for none of theirs. What he did, he did alone, compelled by the thought that he would never forgive himself if he did not at least attempt to learn the truth.

On this particular search he was expecting the smallest of clues, but recent experiences had made him wary and more careful. He had taken to accepting the advantage that came along with having someone he could trust- Porpentina Goldstein’s capable hands watched over his case of beasts when he left on his brief excursions. Newt had even made certain that the Auror was comfortable renewing the expansion charms which kept his home secure and sturdy, in case he was gone longer than he intended.

Between her organized mind and his detailed notes, he felt for the first time able to relinquish the care of the creatures within for temporary periods as a preferable alternative to risking them in possibly dangerous areas.  As Tina had pointed out to him the first time as well, he stood a much better chance of quickly getting done what needed doing if he wasn’t constantly distracted by the small daily matters of beast care, and risked much less should anything go wrong.

She had been right.

In the rocky outcroppings where he suspected Grindelwald once made one of many command points, Newt navigated much more easily with both hands free. His mind worked on the runes he found, remnants of past wards, unfettered by worries such as whether he had remembered to do one chore or another. It was him, the sea, the winds, the cliffs, and the idea that maybe- perhaps- he could find something, anything, that might help shed some light on these morbid affairs.

When his fingers wrapped around the handle to the cellar door he’d found among the stone, Newt felt nothing to indicate that it might be dangerous.

It was only when he tapped the end of his wand lightly to its lock that he realized his mistake. He felt the crack of magic as the defensive ward, still alive, jolted through his body and in the process ripped his wand away from his grasp.

 The last clear memory he had was a shooting pain through his right arm as the enchantment snatched hold of him, pulling him into the cellar with such strange strength that his vision blossomed blackness. It felt as if something had forced him to apparate- to where, he could not know. The sensation was terrible, sickening. Everything after was a haze of dark blue, the smell of cold salt water, and the pounding in his head that matched the pounding of the waves upon the rocks.

…

When Newt awoke in the cave he was almost relieved. Perhaps, he thought, he had simply stumbled upon a secret entrance- a way into a practical storage area or antechamber to a main area.

This hope died quickly as he examined his surroundings. Soft, silvery light illuminated the rough, domed walls from a small pool near one edge. Water flowed from the pool, creating a small stream approximately three feet deep and five feet wide. It disappeared underground on the far wall.

It would have been a pretty sight to a wary traveler, but Newt was more concerned about the lack of discernible entrances. He decided to make the most of his exploration of the walls and reached for his wand-

Newt caught short. He felt nothing. _Where was it?_

He remembered the jolt through his arm, the rip of his wand away from his hands.

He remembered spellbooks and informational tomes, describing magical flytrap-like areas meant to disarm and contain wizards that might be prodding too closely at one’s private business.

His eyes roamed over the stone as he slowly turned in a circle. No cracks, no doors, no windows. The wizard breathed the cool air as his mind worked carefully through his options. In the end, none of it mattered- his existence proceeded exactly as he should have predicted and accepted: in a cold, damp cave with no company or resources other than the clothes on his back and the swirling, silver pool.

…

Newt shivered.

He lay with his coat draped over his huddled form. In another try at finding an escape route, he had stripped down to his undergarments and attempted to see if he could somehow swim out, following the flow of the small stream, despite the risk in not knowing where it flowed to. No such luck received him: where the water disappeared into the wall, he felt jagged rocks clogging the way like a naturally formed grate. It was probably for the best- for all he knew, it would have simply dragged him underground and not surfaced again. The thought of where the flow might lead- or rather, might not lead- rose bile of fear in his throat. The attempt had been an act of desperation.

The water, he had discovered, had an enticing flavor to it that took some of the edge from his nerves, but as he drank it dawned on him that the slaking of his thirst came at a price. Newt was familiar enough with these potions to know what was happening, could feel it under his skin- the odd, unsettling sensation of magic sloughing away. It was not so much suppressing his magic as it was releasing it, dissipating it into the ether, causing it to flee faster than it could be built up. He confirmed his suspicions by experiment.

His small bit of wandless magic was mostly borne from years of practice in the wilds. Practical magic that kept him alive after rainstorms and sleet, in damp swamps and barren mountainsides. A firm concentration and a firm, confident gesture of his hands could rouse a dead firepit to life. In this cave, with no fuel to burn, the fire he could will into existence sapped the energy from his body instead- as expected.

It was a stupid move, he knew, using up his magic like this, but the comfort it provided was irresistible. The flickering light changed the cold walls into living beings and gave him some reprieve from the crushing emptiness that threatened and pulled at his anxious mind.

As time wore on, the small flames he summoned gradually decreased in size until he was unable to conjure even the gentlest spark. What little wandless magic he had was robbed slowly away from him with each swallow he took from the gently glowing pool.

Thirst did not trouble his body, but growing hunger accompanied the gradual loss of his magic. Newt had no way of knowing how much time had passed other than by the signals from his body. He had exhausted every pocket of his coat. Small treats usually reserved for his beasts had been discovered, rationed, and eaten. Plump berries for the bowtruckles, shelled acorns meant for the demiguise, even strips of dried meat which he had softened in the water and chewed plain. Gone.

Long gone, truly.

He had known hunger before but he had also always known the reason. He’d been able to forage, to find new ways to make wild bounty edible. Here, what was he supposed to do? Bare walls, empty streams, nothing even growing in tough stubbornness on the stone. The helplessness gnawed at his mind as much as the emptiness gnawed at his stomach. His mind conjured memories of open spaces and humble gathered meals by his campfire and his teeth chewed his lips unbidden in an effort to gain some semblance of eating stimulation.

He ached, and he shivered, and he wanted, and he wondered, and he starved.

…

Newt did not know the night that reprieve came. It was when his fingers twitched and his eyes burned, and the water lay heavy in his stomach, and he lay with his back crowded against the wall across from  the stream, hands buried into his hair from frustration while his mind buzzed with a constant pain of hunger-headache against his skull.

Behind his malnourished vision Newt was unaware that the silvery light had been joined by a warmer glow as a threshold opened on one side of the cave. Voices and footsteps were what caught his attention, and somewhere his consciousness pushed forward in a haze of hope to open his eyes and turn his head upward towards the source.

A figure crouched before him, a disapproving vocalization issuing forth.

“Sorry, sorry” the crouching figure murmured, a cool but gentle hand reaching forward to push the suffering man’s hair away from his eyes. “My apologies, Mister Scamander, things have been busy.”

Blue eyes met gold, and suddenly Newt was somewhere else.

His clothes were dry, his skin touched by warm sunlight. He stood in a field aflame with afternoon sun and breathed deep and slow to the rhythm of the breeze which swayed the tall, golden rushes surrounding him, gently grazing his arms as he walked through them, his case clutched in his right hand. He was utterly content.

 _I know this place_ , he barely thought, before he turned his head and the world jolted around him as if spun on an invisible plane.

This time he was on a hill. The air was still and the sun was rising, ghosting at the mists surrounding the forest below. Newt’s coat was spread below him and he was leaning back against the trunk of a fine and wild pear tree as he watched the sunrise from-

 _Where is the Obscurial?_ , he did not think. The leaves rustled beautifully above him. Just a few more moments of this beauty, please-

**_Where is the Obscurial?_ **

Newt was back in the cave. His chest heaved as his lungs pulled in a cold, desperate breath. Every pain was back to him, every sense of his reality, and when the stars faded from his eyes he recognized the face so close to his own.

“That was beautiful” Grindelwald sighed, as if he were complimenting a painting or a piece of music, “but that’s not what I asked for.”

The vision of Grindelwald’s concerned expression was the last thing Newt saw before blackness enveloped his mind once more.

…

Newt awoke in an unfamiliar bed. His cavewater-sodden clothes had been changed to modest linen pyjamas, the cream color complementing the warm undertones of his red-freckled skin, but he could not recall when this had happened. Silk surrounded him in an echo of the ocean he had been torn away from. Dark blue waves of fabric piled loosely, pillows and cotton sheets layered to the effect of the ocean spray, textures satisfyingly grounding underneath his hands as he struggled to push himself upright and discern what he could about where he was.

The room spun as his muscles rebelled and shook beneath him. Although the bed was warm, dry, and comfortable, his strength had not returned, and his hunger had not abated. Newt pressed his eyes shut and groaned in exertion, instead turning on his side and looking out at the room through hazed vision.

So distracted was the starving man that he had not felt the pair of gold eyes appraising him. When Newt noticed the blurry vision of the seated figure, he had a moment of confusion where he thought he was in a hospital and someone had come to visit him.

“You shouldn’t try to get up.” The man’s tone was low and sincere as he watched his captive suffering on the silk sheets.

Newt’s body stiffened as the realization clicked into place. He was having trouble- thinking- concentrating- his mind struggling to hold more than one concept at a time. He had completely forgotten the implications of the situation. That if he was a captive, who must be the captor?

The image he saw in his last seconds of consciousness in the cave swam back into his imagination.

 _Not imagination_ , his inner voice weakly and unhelpfully chimed.

“The effects take time to dissipate,” Grindelwald continued patiently, as if he were a doctor speaking to his patient, “those who find themselves where you ended up are not typically meant to recover.”

Newt’s eyes fell into focus. The other wizard was comfortably seated beside the bed in a dark blue chair darted with silver scaled patterning, his hands wrapped around a lidded silver bowl. The layers of his clothes were clean, pressed, smooth.

“You escaped.” Newt’s tone was flat, a bodiless accusation.

Gellert’s smile was patronizing. “Not as far as MACUSA knows. Don’t look too closely at the body they’ve got under key.”

“What do you want with me?” Newt asked, voice barely above a hoarse whisper. What he meant was: _Why am I not dead?_

 “I did enjoy our time together in New York, however brief.” Gellert’s attention turned to the bowl in his lap as he spoke. His hands were clad in thin, supple, black leather gloves.

“It was the truth, too. You are an interesting man. I hoped we could continue our conversation in better circumstances than MACUSA.” His tone was easy, as if he were speaking with an old friend. Nostalgic, almost- there was no hint of malice that would suggest a man who had only months ago been perfectly willing to end Newt’s life.

Newt had no answer and the other man did not seem to expect one. Instead, Grindelwald slid open the silver lid to extract a small, pink, pillow-like square. He seemed to appreciate it for a moment before turning his attention back to his patient.

“You’re confused. You’ve been through much, but I haven’t much time to spend with you, so we’ll have to get this over with now.”

A gloved hand made the gentlest gesture, as if cradling something invisible in midair, and Newt instinctively struggled against the formless fingers of wandless magic as he felt them holding his neck down and pulling his jaws open. It was futile, of course; he could barely lift his arms, much less attempt to resist without his own magic.

“You’re alright, love, it’s not poison.” Grindelwald soothed, honey in his voice. “Just eat, it will help.”

When the soft confection was placed delicately between his lips, Newt cursed his own body for needing no behest. His mouth watered and his tongue rejoiced, the taste of rose-water and sugar combining as the Turkish delight was swallowed down his throat hungrily. Even when Grindelwald had smiled and pulled away, leaving through the door as casually as if he was on his way to a night on the town, Newt lay paralyzed against the pillows and wondered how long he would last before scrabbling to the silver bowl that had been set just out of reach in the hopes of more.


	2. Hospitality

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Food for Newt; information for Grindelwald.
> 
> Or: Newt is wined and dined and drugged up to his eyeballs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The more I tried to write this chapter the more I ended up writing notes for future chapters...I don't know why I bother trying to have a formative plot, trust me, all I want is for Newt to fuck up and get fucked up, but SOMEHOW that point keeps moving further toward the horizon...
> 
> Again massive thanks to Nami here on AO3 (@firebyfire on tumblr) for making me see the possibility of this ship,  
> and massive apologies, because SPOILER ALERT: this is now definitely going to turn into Gramander pairing later. WHOOPS
> 
> (Also I still don't know how this chapters thing works or if I'm supposed to edit tags or what I'm still a fanfic baby please please please feel free to give concrit for my AO3 etiquette!)

When Newt’s fingers wrapped around the cold silver, he again felt no indication of danger from the ornate bowl.

This was a deception. He should have known.

Yet instead of an explosion of magical power or forced apparation there was something sweet and beautiful. Before he could attempt to open the lid, small scrolling letters faded into view on the reflective surface in response to the touch of his skin.

_What do you want?_

It felt almost polite. His hands shifted. He felt gently along the seam of the lid, searching for a way to open it, the script fading as he did so only to reappear as a much more succinct message.

 _Ask_ , the bowl answered.

Perhaps he convinced himself through desperation and want that he was not digging his own grave, that more sweet relief from starvation was worth whatever deal he was about to make. It was just some trick vessel. A sweets bowl meant to teach manners to children. A humiliation for him from his captor, nothing more. So he told himself.

“Please,” he heard his voice scratch. _Open_ , he thought to himself.

And it did.

If he had been able to look upon himself from a distance- to see what a short period without basic biological needs being met could do, even to one accustomed to a threadbare existence- he might have been ashamed. There they were, though. The candies were revealed, soft and tantalizing, powdered, plush. If he had any logical reservations or suspicions about the Turkish Delights, they were overridden by his desperate state. His head was still not right, his magic was still siphoned from his spirit, his body demanded to be fed.

He had already eaten one, and the lingering sweetness he could taste in his mouth made him crave more, more. Whether they were nourishment or poison, the deed was already done as soon as Grindelwald had placed it on his tongue; what did it matter if he allowed himself the relief of the only food in his reach?

If Newt had been in his right mind, he might have noticed the subtle difference. He might have noted their color, slightly darker red than the pink of the first he tasted; he might have realized their flavor, while still lightly floral, was more in the family of the poppy than the rose.

…

The Turkish Delight in the silver bowl had done exactly as Grindelwald had promised.

It helped. The pain, the intense gnawing of his body from the inside out, the blurring of his world and blackening of his vision- it all stopped. Yet, the sensation was strange and nonetheless uncomfortable. Each piece of soft, red confection had tasted like the promise of nourishment and new life. Every weak chew of his jaws as he knelt, shaking, by the bedside table had sent signals to that primitive corner of his brain that kept him alive many times in distant forests and cold mountains. Messages of _yes, that’s it, this is what you need_ permeated his thoughts, but as the bowl emptied before his eyes no more satisfaction could be begged from the deceptively thick candies.

Newt’s hands clutched the solid bowl firmly in frustration and want, even as his more logical side urged calmness. If anything, the sweet touch of almond and florals on his tongue and through his throat had only wakened that deeper hunger like a false promise.

There was a secondary- or, perhaps, it was the primary- effect. Newt felt his magic stop slipping away. It was as though a broken wall in a dam had been patched and the water was rising only hair’s width by hair’s width. He should have cared. He did care. In the moment, though, his stomach still felt empty and his body yearned for true nutrition. That forager’s instinct, the urge to explore, his natural curiosity and desire to assess his surroundings- all of these worked together and urged Newt to set down the silver vessel, gather his strength, brace himself against the side of the bed, and stand.

The floorplan of the apartments Newt now found himself in was unusual. It was more of a wing connected to the main house, if he could assume that was where the entry door across from the bed led, and the main space felt more like an overly large and sprawling bedroom. Layers of rich carpets with soft, swirling patterns in muted colors surrounded the large canopy bed where he stood.

Newt stepped unsteadily across those carpets, hands grasping at every piece of furniture as he passed for support, head turning to take in everything he could observe while his mind sought clues and made connections.

 _Information_ , he thought, _something is here for me, something can allow me to escape._

Further rooms spun off from the main, similarly sprawling chambers with lounges and couches piled high with cushions. The corner of a smooth, wooden dining table could be seen through one of the doorways. Another seemed to lead plainly to the bathing room, marble flooring invitingly decorated with lapis lazuli patterning. High sconces illuminated the variety of luxurious fabrics and textures in the living areas, every rich color contrasting tastefully against the next article, smooth transitions of dark reds and blues with bright silvers and shimmering black silks accenting their borders and bringing out the depths of their hues.

To his left, built into the wall and elevated upon a stonework hearth, was a fireplace. It held a small, gentle flame on the wood. The grate bore wrought iron figures of crouching feline bodies with human heads, light dancing in their motionless eyes from the fires behind them.

The most striking feature of the handsome rooms, however, was what Newt noted of the walls. Every possible inch of wallspace was obscured by tapestries or books, with the bookshelves taking a strong lead in sheer volume. Had this been the home of a friend, he would have felt a comforting awe and complimented their voracious appetite for the written word.

As it stood, the only appetite on his mind was his own.

In the end, he did not get far from the bed. Newt was examining the ceiling, trying to work out if the patterns and constellations above were properly indicative of the time and date, when he felt the sedative effect of the Turkish Delights begin to creep up his spine. This was calmer, sweeter, more peaceful; it felt like a mercy, compared with how he had drifted in and out of painful consciousness in the cave. This time Newt had plenty of warning for the sleep that was washing over him, and as he settled into the thick cushioning of one of the dark blue chairs he felt only a sublime and overwhelming comfort as he drifted into the sleep of a man without worries.

…

When Newt was brought back to himself, it was through the tantalizing aroma of herbs and cooked meat.

For the second time since his captivity Newt was waking with a false impression. The fire crackled pleasantly in its hearth; the chair beneath him was plush, welcoming, comfortable. Someone had been making breakfast, that was it. He half-dreamed that he had fallen asleep at one of the rare welcoming homes of hedge witches, women of the wilds who kept to themselves but offered hospitality to wary travelers.

It all felt so familiar. Utterly peaceful.

When Newt opened his eyes, searching lazily for the source of the tantalizing aroma, he realized that the host sitting across from him was no hedge witch.

Grindelwald’s voice brought him back to reality.

“Are you with us again? That was quite a dose you devoured.”

Newt’s eyes narrowed into focus. He felt the strangest sensation that he should answer just to be polite.

“I apologize for leaving you so abruptly before,” Gellert continued, “but I have been quite busy. I would very much like to continue our conversation- if you have the time, Mister Scamander?”

As he was talking, Newt was struggling to sit up in his seat. His clouded mind was clearing, but not fast enough. It rather felt as though he’d had too much to drink.

 _This is dangerous_ , his logical faculties cautioned, urging him to keep a wary eye on his captor. _There is food_ , another, more primal inner voice rejoiced, bringing his attention instead downwards onto the small table between them both.

The food was not a problem.

In fact, it looked quite good. Fresh steamed vegetables and delicate quail; brown bread with dark golden butter; carrots baked with slivered almonds; rose-colored pears and whole small apples that smelled of honeysuckle. On the small, ornate table in front of him it looked a veritable feast. The scent wafting from the quail was full of promises of the protein he had been denied, and his mouth watered unbeckoned at the possibility of tasting it. It filled his vision; flooded his senses; was, for a moment, Newt’s singular interest.

No, the food was not the problem. The company was.

“Oh, go ahead. Don’t wait on my account.” Grindelwald’s invitation snapped Newt out of his reverie. “Have as much as you’d like.”

The smile and slight inclination of the host’s hand must have held power behind them, and the warnings in Newt’s head fluttered feebly while his hand automatically extended. The brown bread was a soft, tender roll encrusted with flattened oats. It felt like comfort.

“Thank you.” Newt replied with equal reflex, and if he wondered why he felt the need to say it, it was quickly forgotten to the taste of honey in the crust of the small loaf- and if Grindelwald was pleased, Newt did not register that this was one more indication of what kind of situation he was in.

“Mister Scamander, do you know where you are?”

Newt swallowed. “The White Fields- no.” He frowned. _A cellar by the sea, dying in the dark._ He tried again. “Havencliffe.” Why was it so difficult to think straight?

“Do you know who you are?”

“I’m- myself. Newt.”

“Do you know who I am?”

“Yes.” _Oh, god- that’s right- this is bad- he’ll kill-_

“Calm, now, it’s alright. Tell me, do you know why you’re here?”

Newt shook his head, eyes still avoiding looking at his host even with these direct questions. The panic that welled inside his chest moments ago flickered away, hovering at the edges of his thoughts.

“I was hoping” Grindelwald explained, “that you and I might be able to help each other. You are quite fond of beasts, yes? You’ve helped many already.”

Newt nodded. The bread in his hand was disappearing rapidly. Something inside him wondered why Grindelwald cared.

“How would you like to help dragons?”

“I- I know dragons” Newt started, as if it was something he’d only suddenly remembered. “We had- I flew them, we flew together.”

“There’s a place with many, a rare and forgotten population. Quite a unique species.” Grindelwald’s words were slow and even, tailored so the compromised man could follow the conversation. “Would you like to meet them?”

This time Newt didn’t answer. His attention was caught, but his mind was working through something- making a logical conclusion. It was taking painfully long for it to arrive. Grindelwald continued without him.

“They need your help. They are being threatened on all sides by encroaching muggle villages and cities. I’d like to help you help them. With your talent, we could bring them somewhere safe-”

“Capture them, you mean, turn them into weapons for your army-“

Newt stopped himself short and wondered why he’d said that. His words were too honest. He was more clever than this- he could have simply nodded along. Why did his thoughts leap to his tongue so traitorously? Why was his panic so subdued, so distant?

Grindelwald did not seem surprised by the interruption. Rather, he smiled at Newt’s liveliness.

“Fighting for a better world for all their kind. Muggles are the reason there are so few dragons left.”

“Wizards did most of it” Newt corrected. Grindelwald seemed so calm- so reasonable- and this was important to the Magizoologist. For others to understand. “Wizards hunted them for glory far more often than muggles ever did.”

“A small example when I am referring to a more general problem. Unicorns, dragons, witches and wizards- a handful of deaths can always be traced back to a member of wizardkind, but the biggest threat to all is the overwhelming number of muggles sweeping the lands.”

“I won’t help you make innocent beasts kill innocent people.” _Too bold_ , his thoughts hissed at his impulsiveness. The moment of clarity wisped away like smoke.

If Grindelwald was offended, he did not show it. Instead he smiled, head nodding in slight concession.

“Of course I wouldn’t force you, Mister Scamander, I understand your hesitancy. I assure you, though- our goals are quite aligned. How is the quail?”

Newt swallowed. His hands halted, eyes casting downward in confusion. When had the quail dish moved so close to him? The moist, tender flesh had his mouth watering. When had he picked up the silver cutlery and worked apart meat from bone? He couldn’t remember finishing the bread, but it was gone from the table. The ceramic dish of baked vegetables was closer to him as well, but steam no longer rose tantalizingly from the hot food; had it gone cold already? How long had it been? Was it day or night? He could not guess either answer, and he supposed for only a moment that this should bother him.

When his eyes rose again, Gellert leaned forward in his seat with an expression of contained amusement.

“Lost you there for a bit. Are you back?”

Newt didn’t know what he meant. His eyes fell to the stemmed glass by Grindelwald’s right hand. When had he poured himself a drink?

“I meant to ask you, Mister Scamander, what about beasts that eat humans?” Grindelwald struck straight back into the conversation, uncaring that his guest was lost and struggling to follow. “I did not notice any kelpies in your case. Marvelous thing, by the way- I forgot to compliment you on it. Creative.”

“They don’t-“ Newt began, shaking his head as he tried to organize his thoughts. “They- it’s a myth, they’re not evil, they defend themselves or- or are twisted by people- please, you can’t think of them as malicious-”

“Some of them don’t need much twisting, then.” Grindelwald mused, watching Newt stumble over his words in his attempt to explain. “In my experience, a taste for human flesh is hardly something many of the greater beasts need to be convinced of. Or have I been meeting with unsavory crowds?”

Newt’s eyes widened. His hand wrapped firmly around the goblet he could not recall picking up, the taste of fruit nectar heavy on his tongue. He started to answer, to protest, but as each word slipped out of his lips it was lost to the ether and immediately forgotten. Whether he has managed to convey a complete thought, he is unaware.

The nectar drained. The uneaten foods disappeared from the table, one by one. Gellert said words Newt didn’t understand, calmly and constantly and with no expectation of reply, and when next Newt finds himself able to understand and respond to anything at all, it is because he has noticed that his hand is now cupped carefully in the gloved palm of his captor.

“Are you finished?” Gellert asks, perfectly polite. “You can have more, if you like.”

Newt looks from his hand to the table. He was so hungry a moment ago- not now. How much has he eaten? He shakes his head. No more.

“I’m glad. That’s good.” Gellert’s smile is reassuring as his fingers start to move, the thin, black leather gentle as his fingertips trace the lines of Newt’s palm. “I’m sorry you were so hungry. I’m sorry you were left for so long. I’m here now. This feels better, doesn’t it?”

Newt nods slowly. His body feels at ease. Comfortable. Satiated, content. He was supposed to be afraid of something. He can’t remember what.

“Mister Scamander, now that you feel better-“

The pattern on the rug is beautiful, Newt thinks.

“-do you think you could help me with something?”

The kind man is kneeling on that beautiful rug now, eyes imploring, hand still holding his own so gently. Newt nods. _Of course,_ he thinks, _I can be helpful._

The smile Grindelwald offers is sincere and reassuring as he crowds forward between Newt’s knees.

“I’m glad” he says sincerely, and for a brief moment Newt gives a weak smile back. When a hand reaches up to cup his jaw he flinches and the smile disappears. That sharp warning in the back of his mind is fluttering feebly while Gellert offers soothing hushes.

“Shh, shh, there’s nothing to be afraid of, I just want to ask you a few questions.”

Newt pauses, hesitant, unsure, but then his vision is filled again with gold, and suddenly he is not being comforted by a generous stranger in a firelit room.

He is sitting on hay-strewn stone, his back against the wooden wall and his legs crossed in front of him. His sun-touched arms are wrapped around the mass of fur-and-feathers that make up the hippogriff foal he is temporarily sharing the stable with, and the scent of grass is full in his lungs. The foal makes endearing, begging chirps as he continues to feed it, alternating between the warmed glass bottle of mare’s milk and the bloody, fresh, meat-covered hind limb of a field hare. The afternoon warmth seeps through the rafters and soothes his body, tired after the day’s labor, content to hold the meat lazily as the small, demanding beak tears at the flesh and Newt’s chest rises and falls in a slow, steady rhythm. Moments turn to minutes and it becomes hard not to simply fall asleep.

It’s a good memory. A pleasant memory. When the first question comes, it barely strikes Newt as odd.

_Where did you learn about obscurials?_

Dust motes float through the air. His hand stills on the back of the foal, but he doesn’t react.

_How many have you met?_

Silence. Warmth.

_Where did you find your first obscurus?_

Something feels wrong. The voice is soft and pleasant, but it doesn’t belong here. Not here.

As soon as Newt thinks this, it all happens at once: there is something writhing at the edges of his vision, something enormous, something that means to devour him, and this time he does not shift smoothly to another serene memory. He turns his head to look straight at the intruder and when he does, he cannot tell which man is more shocked.

Newt jolts to life under Grindelwald’s hands, eyes wide with fear and head tossing to retreat from his touch. _That’s what you’re supposed to be afraid of,_ he thinks, before his body catches up to the reaction and his limbs shake and spasm with the contradiction between the sedative potion and adrenaline rush.

Grindelwald frowned. His legilimency was less reliable if the victim was in high physical duress, like when he’d first found the man starving on the cold floor of the cave, but comfortable and fed and subdued by the potion that infused the Turkish Delights…he should be finding much more relevant information.

If his guest was strong enough to resist, he would expect to feel the barrier. Overpowering such resistance was like breaking down a door or picking a lock, depending on the person, and gave Gellert great satisfaction once achieved. But now the door was unlocked, welcoming, easy to wander through, just going to inconsequential and utterly useless places.

And to notice him so quickly, much less be able to break the immersion…

“Learned some tricks from Albus?” Gellert asks, easily keeping the shaking man upright in the cushioned chair. He cannot tell if the sounds coming from Newt’s throat are attempts at replying or a continuation of his fear response. He’d been doing so well during their quiet dinner, too. Oh, well.

“That’s alright, love” Grindelwald reassures Newt, patting his knee. “We’ll find a way to work this out.”

“-and if not,” he continues, “there’s always the old fashioned way.”


	3. Familiarity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Newt eats; Grindelwald talks; a pattern emerges.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Before I get anyone's hopes up, this chapter is basically a stupidly thorough setup of Newt's first three weeks of captivity where Grindelwald is, basically, a perfect gentleman (aside from legilimency.) There's very little action, very little character interaction, and a whooole lot of setup, and LORD HELP ME EVEN I DON'T KNOW WHY
> 
> I swear this was just supposed to be an exploration of some dark-fucking-things I wanted to see done to Newt Scamander, but EVIDENTLY I'm incapable of just writing some godforsaken smut. Apologies all around. I promise there's a lot more character interaction and actual wheels turning in the next chapter. u_u (ConCrit welcome, please inform me of any errors, feel free to give tips on tagging, etc. etc.)

Newt’s recovery progressed steadily under the watchful eye of his captor. Whatever information Grindelwald wanted, he did not seem in a hurry to get it; and despite his cheerful threats, Newt’s treatment still far more resembled that of an honored guest than a prisoner.

His following days were spent in abject luxury. Every need he had was tended, every bodily desire that arose satisfied. This was not difficult, considering most of those needs were sleep and water.

Most times, Newt would wake and stumble his way to get a drink or visit the bathing room before falling back into slumber. There was cold, fresh water always- in a silver pitcher on the smaller of three desks. Once set back onto its glass pedestal it would slowly refill, and though he was suspicious of the contents, this was not the same water as had sapped his magic away in the sea-cave. It was water, pure and sweet and irresistible.

Most of the time, Newt was alone.

Most of the time, his thoughts were his own.

On the third day-or-night a pattern had emerged. As soon as he awoke, he could feel it. A strange and subtle pull that would have his fingers automatically tapping round the edges of the silver bowl, jittery, nervous, until at some point- some invisible, predetermined time- those three letters would appear and ask him to _ask_ and reward him when he did so politely. The first day he had been given a handful of the delightful Delights. Every day since, he was given one.

One was enough.

When he swallowed, the world righted itself a bit. He was still hungry. He was still afraid. But he was calmer. Detached, in a way. Able to explore and take stock and almost forget, in the luxurious comfort of the richly decorated rooms, the threat and the purpose and the jaws he was held in.

Most of the time.

Food itself was another matter.

One meal had not been enough to fix the extended time Newt had spent wasting in the darkness. Thankfully, that suffering seemed to be over- every morning he was provided with an equally lavish meal, delivered by unseen means straight to an ornate side cabinet by the same silver-darted chair. Newt could not bring himself to care what kind of food it was, nor pull any enjoyment from the expensive tastes of his host. He ate mechanically, fearfully, the experience poisoned by worry and spurred only by the constant thought that he had to get stronger.

It became his routine of instincts to eat his Delight; drink his water; eat his food; sleep.

Sleep was what Newt had the most of. He was never bored- he didn’t have the time. If he had to hazard an estimate, he must be sleeping eight hours for every four he was awake. Deep and restful sleep, it was. If he dreamed it was nothing he remembered. What a blessing. His body was even healing of the bruises and stiffness that sleeping on that cold, uneven stone had inflicted. When he was conscious, it was long enough to tend to his bodily needs and explore some of the details of his quarters, but soon enough he would feel that warning call again that he would not be awake much longer.

On the second day, he had fallen asleep while inspecting the bookshelves- back against the foot of a chair, cross-legged on the floor, his head leant against the cushion. When he stirred awake again it was back in the ocean of a bed, and the realization that he must have been moved was disconcerting enough that he made certain never to fall asleep outside of it again.

Sometimes, aside from that experience, there was evidence he had not been alone. The dishes, of course, disappearing while he was asleep. A chair moved closer to the fireplace. Newt was disconcerted to think that he was being looked over unknowingly, but the alternative- to be awake every time his host came visiting- was hardly a preferable choice.

The only contact Grindelwald insisted upon was their nightly conversations.

Usually these occurred over dinner; a shared meal, an exchange of pleasantries where Gellert would politely inquire about Newt’s wellbeing and Newt would see how far his attempts at silence could get him.

The fourth time he shared a dinner with Grindelwald was particularly nerve-wracking. Without the excessive dose of the Delight’s sedation, and with more food providing focus to his thoughts, Newt had to work to force down the meal as well as his constant unease. So far, his host had done nothing to make him believe he was in active danger; but that was almost worse, truly, to have the logical knowledge of the person Grindelwald was be at odds with the behavior of the model host. Their conversation this time was pleasant, neutral, and entirely removed from what he knew to be Grindelwald’s true intentions. A docile, if still highly one-sided, chat over the intricacies of various potions that called for unicorn hair as an ingredient.

Tonight, it seemed, Newt couldn’t muster himself to be a good conversationalist.

“Come now” Grindelwald encouraged amicably after a particularly long silence, “you’re the expert.”

“Why?” Newt asked, his voice fading into a whisper.

Grindelwald stared politely. “What do you mean?”

“Why do you talk to me? Why do you make me remember pleasant things?” He licked his lips, nervous. “What are you hoping I’ll help you do?”

“Don’t worry, darling” Gellert lied. “You’re helping me plenty.”

His nerves caught up with him when Grindelwald again applied his legilimency at the end of their meal.

This time the scene Newt found himself reliving was once again a memory of beauty, of comfort, of an early experience learning to work with juvenile unicorns. Soft grass and softer moonlight accompanied the voice of the witch instructing him, and he felt overworked but at peace. He could smell the sweetwheat-and-oat gruel as he stirred it in the cauldron, cooking it down to feed as a supplement to the diets of the youngest foals. He felt content.

The vision went on; and on; and on; and did not change; until he felt the prickling of fear on his right shoulder, and his head turned to look unbidden, and the startled horror that rushed into his mind jolted him awake to see Grindelwald once again leaning away with a frown of disappointment.

The shock of the experience combined with his raw nerves and he could not help himself as his body reacted to the mixed signals. He retched, making a mess of his clothes. Grindelwald looked on with an expression of disgust as Newt’s body shook with the stress of the ordeal. Newt, for his part, had the decency to recoil in mixed embarrassment from the _faux pas_ and lingering horror from the abrupt end to his vision, as he covered his mouth and tried to get a handle on his breathing.

“Clean yourself up. We’ll try again tomorrow.” The disdain was evident in Grindelwald’s voice, but he curbed it quickly. He snapped his fingers as he stood, calmly gathering his cloak. At once a pair of house elves appeared.

“See that he has new clothes after he’s bathed”, he commanded to the room as he waved a gloved hand to open the door to his study. He paused, thought, and turned his head. “ _Daily._ ”

Thus began the addition of bathing to Newt’s routine.

The bath itself was very much like the food. It would have been a rare and welcome luxury, without the crushing anxiety looming over him. It was oversized; carved from obsidian; oval in shape and deep enough that he could completely submerge himself. He scoured his skin with the rich lather of the soap provided for him until every inch of himself was raw, as though this touch could cleanse his mind from where Grindelwald had reached in and poisoned the precious memory. He soaked in the hot water until he felt scalded, until he hauled himself out and suddenly felt incredibly naked and vulnerable. By sheer blessing there was no mirror. He did not have to see what he must look like, starved and fearful.

When Newt ventured back to the main room with his mind in a haze, he found new clothes waiting. Soft, and clean, and white, and identical. He put them on quickly and felt no safer for it, before wrapping himself again in those dark blue blankets and praying for the comfort of unconsciousness.

Any thought he had of gaining information or a sympathetic spirit in the house elves was quickly extinguished. They would only show themselves long enough to let him know that his bath was ready, and if he turned through a doorway and caught a glimpse of them changing his bedding or delivering food they would disappear. Always, their expressions were of polite indifference- as though they had no opinion on the matter whatsoever. Eventually, they adjusted their housekeeping habits to the point where Newt stopped seeing them altogether. He felt only the more alone from it.

…

He would usually fall back into that dreamless, blackened haze soon after Grindelwald’s conversations, the stress robbing him of what strength he had built. Sometimes he stayed aware- right on the cusp, barely conscious, in that half-sleep state where visions of silver water and ocean spray haunted his thoughts.  

But on the sixth day, the dreams began.

Each time was the same. Newt would realize two things simultaneously; the first, that he was not awake. The second, that he was not alone.

Lucidity did not help his situation. It did not grant him control. His surroundings remained the same- stone, cold and smooth. Emptiness, aside from a single companion. The haze of his dream left him only with general impressions. A beast lying on its side with its back to him. A large animal, dark, covered in fur. Laboring under the effort of its respiration, ribs rising and falling unsteadily in time with its ragged breaths.

Newt did not feel fear in these dreams. He felt pity. He would wake, strangely guilty, ashamed that he could not help the beast that suffered alongside him in the dark. He supposed himself lucky that he was not plagued by the kind of true nightmares he might have expected from the situation. If he had to guess, he was dreaming of the prison cavern; he didn’t think he would ever be able to think of caves again without automatically also remembering the feeling of helplessness that went along with his time spent next to the glowing pool.

When his mind was clear enough, he tried to reason through the events thus far. He supposed that the dreams could be from Grindelwald, another probing assault into his mind; but he did not get the impression that Grindelwald knew of them, or even that Grindelwald was devoting much time to Newt other than their nightly conversations. All told, despite his behavior when he was with Newt the man seemed rather busy. Occasionally there would be some sort of signal- a glow to the door of his study, the distant sound of a rich bell- that seemed to indicate that some matter-or-other needed his attention. Once, one of the house elves had even shown up to calmly inform Grindelwald that his instruction was being requested from Glasgow.

In those cases, he had excused himself with apologies and left Newt alone to eat.

Newt waited on such nights, mind churning with worry, for legilimency that never came.

Nonetheless, he concluded that the dreams were his own. He wondered other things, too; he was certain that the Obscurial was Grindelwald’s chief concern. Newt was not stupid. He had noticed the pattern, even in his addled state, that the memories Grindelwald somehow pulled from him were in some way related to the topics at hand that Gellert turned their conversations toward. Newt had pushed the thoughts as far from his mind as he could, knowing this, but aside from the first instances, Grindelwald had avoided the subject altogether.

…

The books that sprawled across the walls spanned centuries and continents’ worth of subject material.

The first time Newt had felt well enough to stand on his own, he chose one of those tomes from a shelf at chest-level, the gold swirls of its spine promising familiar medieval religious works.

His hands jerked back from the pages. The book fell onto the bed, open-faced, displaying its richly colored pages bordered by careful calligraphic swirls which were at odds with the gruesome images painted in the centers. Placid, almost childishly simple faces of human figures were penned onto bodies which displayed a different emotion. Twisted in pain, they spilled their guts and bled onto the parchment. It seemed to be an instructive section on the use of a particular torture mechanism, though for what purpose or against which people he did not linger long enough to discern.

If the world did not feel so far away, he supposed that he would have been more alarmed. Instead, Newt set it back on the shelf and made a different selection; and another; and another; never pausing long enough to truly read. He saw Greek, and Arabic, and Coptic, and Cyrillic, but mostly English, and mostly classics. Some were famous epics, some were practical spellbooks, some were entire thin tomes devoted to completing a single potion. They felt familiar. They _smelled_ familiar. Where he opened a book and disliked its bloody contents, he snapped it shut, flipped it around, and replaced it.

This worked. This kept him from being overwhelmed, kept him concentrated on something to keep the panic at bay. He knew his limits. He had all the time in the world. If he rushed about; searched for windows; yanked at closed doors; yelled himself hoarse…there was no point.

He worked his way across the shelves, and where the shelves ended he felt his way along the tapestries as though admiring works in a museum. In this way, Newt slowly explored the rooms that now encompassed, to the best of his knowledge, his entire world. As he went he observed. He took mental notes and tried to keep calm. Methodically, like a songbird exploring the tines of its cage, he found his boundaries.

The Bathing Room had no books. Nor did the strange Black Room, which was devoid of anything at all other than piles of lush, red cushions. But the main room, with the largest bed; the smaller, secondary, proper-bedroom; the Dining Room; these were veritable libraries.

…

It could have stayed this way, perhaps. Newt, gaining strength and resting; the memories he had paying the price of his continued care. Maybe Grindelwald truly was keeping him around as some sort of resource on magical beasts, although Newt could not imagine a man such as Grindelwald would need any information he could provide on that front.

Maybe Grindelwald had realized that Newt was useless, too, because in the third week of his recovery, the food stopped coming.

Newt could not think why. It didn’t make sense. There had also been a large pitcher made of thick crystal that held cold, light red wine sweetened with an abundant variety of citruses, grapes, and strawberries. Despite his suspicions about the contents and conclusion that it would be best to keep his wits about him, Newt had gradually sipped the sweet alcohol dry for sheer need of calories to burn. Although he rationed them, soon enough he had eaten every piece of soaked fruit, skins and all, from the bottom. It did not refill. The slide-open cabinet remained empty.

He still had his one Delight per day. It was not enough. The books distracted him, but soon enough his hands shook and he found himself unable to focus his eyes on the words. He knew what was coming next if he did not find something to eat.

The entirety of his living quarters had been thoroughly explored, desperation even driving him to consider thoughts such as _the deliciously-scented soap in the bathing room would only make me vomit_ and _this leather book binding cannot possibly be chewed or torn, anyway_. The only things of note he found were queer quirks of the rooms- like how certain messes would right themselves, drawers gently closing on their own when he stepped back from them and cushions fluffing and settling back on padded chairs no matter how many times he knocked them to the floor in frustration. Domestic items charmed for organization and beauty that he would have found sincere in another household. As it stood, his inability to make permanent changes in his environment only discomforted him more.

Of all the frustrations he felt, though, there was a single item which would most likely be the end of his sanity.

The Dining room held a table whose centerpiece was a glass-domed terrarium. Within it, elegantly posed, was what appeared to be miniature fig tree. Suspended slightly above, floating, rotating slowly, a large piece of honeycomb was its only company. The honey glistened in the room’s warm lighting, dripping down in a constant flow, landing on and absorbed by the bare roots of the small fig tree. Plump, darkened red-and-lilac fruits hung from the branches, neither growing nor withering.

When Newt tried to remove the glass dome, his fingers slipped away as if repelled by a gentle magnetic force. The discovery that he would not be able to reach the treasure inside did not stop him from finding himself perched before it again and again. His imagination conjured thoughts about how the fruit must taste, seedy fig flesh laden with golden honey. Another form of torture.

After all the effort he’d gone through, did Grindelwald intend for him to die? What a terrible way, if so. Newt knew the human body could waste for many more days so long as it was kept hydrated. Refraining from drinking would hasten an inevitable end from starvation and dehydration, but he knew he would not deny himself the cool, sweet, ultimately unfulfilling water. The baser instincts of his body wouldn’t have allowed it anyway, but above that he had no intention of dying if he could help it.

He waited, and he wondered, and he explored every wall and ceiling, and he dizzied when he stood, and his lean body rebuked his higher faculties for daring again not to nourish it. His dreams became more crowded. Always the wounded beast, but words as well, the impression of a voice that might have been his own:

_Find me. Help me. Save me._

His sense of focus slipped away first. The normal leaping of his thoughts from one subject to the next became difficult, as if he was wading through murky waters of the swamps or the moors or a dozen places he had traveled where the earth was wettened and impossible to stand steadily on. The usually bright-eyed reader found himself trapped in circles, the same phrases repeating themselves in his mind without understanding. It was a bit like being deprived of sleep- wary, sluggish, stupid. If only he could think. If only everything were not quite so far from the grasp of his logic, he might be able to find a way out of this deepening spiral that terrified him, but which he had not the energy to react to.

…

Newt’s suffering was ended on the day he heard music.

He did not know why the door to Grindelwald’s study was ajar. He didn’t care.

All he knew was that it was; and there was music; and that anything would be better than dying like a trapped beast, and even if he had to beg, maybe he would be remembered and given some scraps or some pity. _Or a way out_ , some part of him still hoped.

Newt pushed the door open into an entirely different set of living quarters. He had been wrong. This was not Grindelwald’s study. This was the threshold into what seemed to be an entire estate- polished stone floors, ornate stairwells curving off in two directions, at least a dozen doors on the first and second stories. If anything, his living area must have been merely a guest wing.

The most striking feature of this main room, however, was its sole occupant.

Automatically, Newt moved to comfort the poor creature. Its body was large, its fur smeared with blood, its breathing laborious; the sounds of its pain resonated through the room, and his starved brain sparked with anger and anguish at the thought of what Grindelwald must have done to hurt the beast.

At the sound of the intruder, the helpless beast fell silent.

Its ears pricked. Its maned head rose. It turned and half-stood, and Newt gained a more complete view of the thing he had disturbed.

The noises coming from its throat had been those of effort from tearing at the portion of meat-and-bone it held in its feline paws. The blood had been from its meal. The amber eyes held only curiosity and deathly power.

 _No_ , his thoughts cried to him, recognizing the sphinx for what she was, _not helpless after all._


	4. The Sphinx

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Newt meets a potential friend; Grindelwald learns a new thrill.

The first time Newton Scamander met a sphinx had been no surprise. He had gone looking. He had found.

Egypt had been a dangerous learning experience. Time had been against him, but he’d foolishly told himself it was possible to sacrifice preparation for the sake of saving creatures in need.

The nineteenth century had not been kind to Egypt’s magical fauna. Endless battles and clashes of cultures, wizarding and not, ravaged the lands of creatures already suffering from losses of key habitats along the Nile. The obsession of Newt’s own countrymen with the artifacts of the ancient kings did not help any. Ministry peacekeepers operated in exasperated groups, most of their time spent trying to stymie the flow of cursed objects from Northern Africa to England.

By the time Newt had first read the word _sphinx,_ they were already few and far between. Sphinx, which were once revered by wizards and muggles alike; sphinx, who enjoyed worship and fear and entire temples dedicated to their strength and beauty; sphinx, now long hunted for glory by some affluent wizarding families, killed by raiders seeking ancient magic, dwindling in population from unsuitable breeding conditions.

Muggles were excavating in earnest and their expeditions were bringing them dangerously close to the territories of remaining sphinx. Encounters had already happened, to deadly outcome. In their haste and lack of time for a more nuanced approach, specialists from European wizarding coalitions sent to maintain peace had done the only thing they knew how to do. They killed sphinxes where they could, and diverted muggles when they couldn’t. The survival of a species was the last thing on their minds.

Which is why Newt knew what he had to do.

After four unsuccessful attempts- bad information, poor timing, or sudden interference disrupting his search- Newt found an active lair.

The plan was straightforward. Sphinx were intelligent. Dangerous, yes, but capable of reason. He would convince the sphinx to come with him, to survive until conditions bettered in Egypt or until a more suitable home could be found. Of the little practical information he could find, a common thread emerged: sphinx could be calmed by offerings. Humility. Manners. A capable adversary at riddles and game of logic.

He brought with him what he considered suitable materials for his approach. One wizard’s account of an active temple had provided a detailed summary of the foods served, so Newt made certain to bring the confection described as well- it seemed more for show of platitude than for the sphinxes to eat.

This was how Newt found himself layered with powdered sands, entering the mouth of a hidden cavern into a buried temple, carrying his case in one hand and a satchel of offerings in the other: almonds, honey, pistachios, spices, opium, and three flavors of Turkish Delight.

…

It was this sphinx that came to his mind now. He thought of dry air, of etched walls, of blood in the desert. He remembered brilliantly, vividly, as if he had only just left Egypt yesterday. Everything he had learned from that experience rushed forward, and for the first time in weeks Newt had the strangest feeling that he knew exactly what to do. This he was familiar with. Beasts, he could handle. He could get out alive, after all, if he just watched his step. He had done it before.

But this part was important.

First impressions. Platitudes. _I have to do this right_ , he thought.

So focused was he on handling this meeting properly, he did not notice the second sphinx lounging under the stairwell. Newt startled at the movement of her head in the shadows and she appraised him in the silence, just as the first one did, and for a moment his confidence faltered.

 _Pay attention_ , Newt scolded himself, trying to rouse his exhausted mind into usefulness. _Observe._

For their part, the sphinxes gave him time. They seemed neither alarmed nor threatened- _good._

Both were objectively beautiful. They had bodies the color of shifting sands, light tans and browns mixing with the burning yellow of a hazy sun on a flat horizon. The closest woman’s mane was a rich and gleaming copper-red.

Their faces would have been startling to someone unfamiliar. The transition from lion’s body to woman’s head was not nearly so defined as most old manuscript’s illustrations would lead one to believe. They were harsher. More feline. Beautiful visages the way a true lion’s face was, with broad noses and strong jaws, covered in velvet-soft fur but lacking the curling lips and long whiskers of a cat.

Newt’s eyes took in what they could in a matter of moments as he prepared his greeting and hurriedly tried to remember his best riddles. There would be a greeting; an exchange of courtesy; and then the real test would begin.

“Good evening”, he said politely, not truly knowing whether it was day or night. His voice betrayed his weakened state, but he hoped it sounded sincere enough. “I’m sorry to have disturbed you.” His words faded. The music went on, drifting down from a room on the second floor. Neither sphinx spoke in reply.

The sphinx in the shadows shifted at his words. She rose to her feet, an expression of calm curiosity on her features. Newt had expected her to wait for his actions, as he was accustomed to hippogriffs doing, but instead she padded forward softly, each enormous paw meeting the ground with the weight of her body balanced delicately above it. As she revealed herself in the light Newt noted that her mane was dark and rich, as full as any male lion’s. She moved with purpose, the first sphinx watching for her actions.

When the lioness was so close Newt could hear the rustle of her mane as she cocked her head, she sat and swept her tufted tail gracefully in front of her feet. But she did not answer. Her eyes held intelligence, but she seemed not to understand what he had said.

Newt remembered the sphinx of Egypt. He remembered her preference for her native tongue. Perhaps these two did not know English. Maybe they had been snatched from Egypt, like so many before them for use as guardians, and Gellert had never taught them.

Raising his hands gently in a sign of harmlessness, Newt licked his lips and swallowed once to regain himself before speaking. He opened his mouth to greet the monstrous woman who seemed to wait patiently for his words. Coptic, then- better to assume formality, even if his fluency left much to be desired.

“ _Khere_ ,“ He greeted carefully, the language on his lips smooth as honey and, he hoped, flattering. “ _Nim pe-_ “

Before he had properly begun his formalities, the dark-maned sphynx attacked.

Her eyes were dispassionate as they locked with his own. Recognizing the almost lazy lift of her foreleg and the tensing of her haunches, Newt instinctively moved to jerk backwards. His body betrayed him, weakened as he was. It was not enough to fully avoid the swipe of the sphinx’ enormous right paw as she lunged forward and gave him a greeting of her own.

Four pawpads touched his left side, wrapping partway around his waist like the cautious embrace of a recent lover. Her claws followed, tearing through the cloth of his shirt as easily as they tore through the skin and muscle beneath. It was not a smooth motion. Newt was knocked bodily to the floor with a shout of surprise and pain, his head striking against the hard marble as he fell.

Desperate to defend himself against the onslaught, Newt pushed himself up onto his knees, arm raised across his chest. Stars burst in his vision and he shook his head to dispel the ringing in his ears as his body tried to save itself from the immediate threat.

As he lifted his gaze he again met the eyes of the sphinx, gold irises contrasting sharply with feminine black lashes. Her expression had changed, now, almost imperceptibly; she was contented.

Newt fell forward, catching himself on his palms, eyes still on the creature as his chest heaved with uneven breaths. She showed no signs of further action, but her paw- she looked almost amused as she lifted it to her mouth and licked the fresh blood from fur and claw. He stared in shock before the blossoming feeling of heat on his ribcage caused his right hand to reach across and press against the wounds made by the temperamental beast.

The second sphinx watched from her original position, body motionless but eyes attentive and intense.

“Sorry-“ Newt choked, reverting to English, unable to remember any other language as the pain raked across his ribcage and threatened to take the tenuous consciousness he had left. “Mercy, please, I apologize-“

“You mock my mother’s language.” Her voice came as a threatening verdict, deliberate and judgmental. “Stupid thing. Doesn’t know when to speak, doesn’t know when to be silent.”

 _Do I have to bleed you, little child?_ The voice of the desert sphinx rang in his ears, a brief moment of resemblance between the two lions flashing through his thoughts. _These sands thirst for new life._

Tears spilled from his eyes unbidden, blurring his vision, the result of pain and adrenaline and frustration and fear. He lowered his head, hoping his humility was enough to prevent a second attack. For some reason, his eyes focused on the meat under the first sphinx’ paws. He had a better angle from this position and that terrible, distant churning of realization started up again.

Most of the prey was already gone; what remained was a mangled spread of bone and muscle, the soft, tender sweetmeats long devoured. There were smears of dry blood, great long streaks of it radiating out to demonstrate where the large cat had dragged it across the smooth floor as she gnawed and turned and got a better angle from which to grip her prize.

Newt was no stranger to meat. He had grown up feeding hippogriffs, and many of the  animals he intervened with were carnivorous. He had helped young predators learn to hunt wild game. He had butchered for them, when they were too small to kill on their own. Many animals killed to eat, as was their right. This, too, was life. This he knew and had long since made peace with.

It was not the fact of the sphinx eating a carcass that alarmed him. It was that, now that he had a closer view, the remnants of the torso were unmistakably human.

Grindelwald’s words leapt to his thoughts. _They don’t take much convincing._

Grindelwald’s next words came from somewhere above him, and from outside of Newt’s memories.

“Irza,” Gellert called from over the railing. Music drifted down from the open door behind him as he took in the scene below. “Why are you playing with my guest?”

“You left the door open this afternoon, after you checked on it.” She replied, eyes not leaving the man bleeding on the floor. “It was trying to escape.”

“Is that right?” Gellert asked, no hint of surprise in his tone.

Newt’s breath came rapid and ragged, his heart pounding in his ears. He heard the words. The immediate danger of the sphinx was gone. He didn’t care. His attempt had been dashed, before he’d even accomplished anything, and now his imprisoner was back anyway- _it wasn’t fair._

His thoughts formed an erratic loop as his body reacted to the injury. Blood seeped through his fingers as he tried to put enough pressure on it to stop the bleeding. His white clothes would be ruined, and he wasn’t sure why that seemed important to him. His teeth were clenched in pain. Newt sank to the floor, lying on his uninjured side, arms wrapped around his midriff and body curling forward in pain. It was the most human of reactions; a universal evolutionary instinct of self-preservation.

It would not help.

“So little meat on it.” Irza quipped, and it almost sounded like a complaint.

“Well, yes. He’s not eaten much recently.”

 _Too close,_ Newt thought, and the sound of Grindelwald’s fine shoes on the fine floor covered in fine blood confirmed it.

“Now, Newton-“ Gellert mused from above, his voice low and sweet with concern as he knelt to examine the man gasping in pain below him. “Hold still, sweetheart, let’s look at what you’ve done to yourself.”

Gellert’s hand covered Newt’s wrist gently, steadily pulling Newt’s hand away. Blood rushed to escape with nothing to block it, and Newt wondered frantically if Grindelwald even knew how to heal such a wound.

“ _Pressure-“_ Newt pleaded, his eyes open now to search for any semblance of understanding from his savior. There was no eloquence and no thought. Only desperation. “ _Hurts-“_

“We’ll patch you up, darling, don’t you worry.” Gellert soothed, even as his hand supported Newt’s head and he leaned forward in that familiar, seeking manner.

“ _Legilimens._ ”

…

This time was different, as Gellert suspected, almost imperceptibly so.

Newt was working, moving rounds of dried grasses steadily in the heavy afternoon air, his wand upheld as spells variously shifted the heavy bales and smoothed the earth where they had been piled. Yet he was nervous. Uncomfortable. His eyes turned skyward from moment to moment, watching the approaching storm whose dark blue clouds loomed threateningly on the horizon.

Gellert had become quite adept at staying out of the way. This was not what he came for and not what he sought, but he had learned that so long as he did not draw attention to himself he could watch the memories play out in their mundanity, as though watching from over the other man’s shoulder. His thoughts kept straying to those overlaid collections of scars that wrapped around Newt’s exposed forearms as he worked. He had seen far worse in his time and was hardly phased by them, but these were so varied and numerous- a life of physical labor yielding scars with boring stories. Nothing terribly interesting.

But he thought. Aurors or duelists wore their scars with pride, whether they were unhealable curse-marks or inflicted by mechanical means. Soft scholars generally shied from pain, or the stigma of being thought of as violent and ill-tempered. If wounds were come by honestly, by manual labor or result of accident, why keep them?

Perhaps, then, he had no choice.

Perhaps these scars were interesting after all.

He only needed a catalyst. A push. A nudge in the right direction.

Slowly, experimentally, Grindelwald planted the seed. A suggestion- a thought- a technique he had used to success before developing more substantial methods of force in his legilimency. A question, polite and carefully placed as he whispered it into Newt’s mind:

“ _Have you ever gotten hurt?_ ”

The effect was sudden. This time when Newt turned his head, it was slow and dreamlike, that looming apparition moving easily and evading his vision; all at once the scene changed, as it had done the very first night when Gellert had crept into the inviting gateway of Newt’s memories. A new vista opened before his eyes. Newt lay in tall grass, his back against a moss-softened rock, the stars above offering little light. He was whispering. Muttering. Something desperate. Something pleading.

The sudden pillar of flame across the sky illuminated the scene, its heat felt even over the crest of the hill. An unseen dragon gave a harsh call in response. There were sounds in the distance of many things in pain, and with the brief light Newt was able to see his filthy bandages, bloodied wand, and the mangled flesh of his thigh.

This is what Grindelwald sought; this is what he expected; this is what he had asked for.

What he had not expected was to share the pain.

…

Grindelwald hissed as he came back to himself, half in pain and half in surprise. The hand at the back of Newt’s head gripped tightly in his hair but the expression on Gellert’s face was that of wonder and appreciation.

The man below him was nearly gone; his breath came quick and shallow, his skin pale as the shock of his injuries both real and remembered set in. His brows were furrowed and his lips moved, though no discernable words came forth. His eyes were unfocused, lost somewhere towards the heavens.

“Irza,” Gellert breathed, eyes never leaving Newt’s, “Come with me. Our guest needs tending.”

His magic was gentle as it wrapped around the starved body, lifting Newt from the floor with careful support and leaving behind a new smear of red. The sphinx followed obediently, with all the pride of a head servant, as though she had not been the reason for the fresh blood on the polished stone.

“Seleki,” Gellert addressed the red-maned sphinx as she stared on, “Stay and enjoy your dinner.”

The last sound Newt heard through the haze of his consciousness as he was taken away was the constant, dull scrape of feline teeth on human bone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've taken big liberties with the sphinxes, I know- I just have a particular vision in mind of them being deadly stoic librarian types, and I also see their appearance as much more beastly than in canon. Plus, it's much less painful for both of us if I don't attempt to put fucking riddles in this.
> 
> Thank you all for your encouraging comments and predictions! They really made me perk up and want to push through, and then I kept being rewarded with new flashes of what I want to see happen to Newt. Expect the next chapter to be a lot of trashy hurt with a side of nonconsensual comfort, because I'm a slut for that. Sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry...


	5. Contact

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Newt is "healed" and receives a visitor in his dreams.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I imagine Grindelwald as a sadomasochist before such terms were even remotely explored in healthy ways. This doesn't excuse him, though- he's a straight up Bad Person- just adds a bit of flavor. SHRUG  
> I'm sorry this isn't a longer chapter, I'm just tossing up whatever I have when I have it. u_u Too goddamn many ideas and not enough ways to connect them.

The medical rooms were small, but clean and complex, clearly well used and serviceable for practical need. Jars and drawers lined the walls, brimming with herbs and ingredients, equipment for potions-brewing either stored neatly or in active use. Delicate metal surgical instruments gleamed in the light of the many rounded lamps in the windowless space, carefully set to dry by the gently sloping sink. Above was a shelf of sharpened obsidian counterparts and long, thin vials of prepared unicorn-hair healing thread.

Gellert was meticulous with this space. It was, after all, where his best art was done.

He sat now, in the quiet, examining his latest work. His hands were clean and washed of blood. A white wisp of smoke rose from the end of his thin cigarette as he held it against his lips. He sat, and he smoked, and he ignored the glowing stone on the doorframe telling him his instruction was needed elsewhere.

His patient needed him now. The starving man was laid out on the raised, narrow bed with his wound exposed, the remnants of his tattered white lounging shirt below him. Gellert’s stitching was superb; despite the ragged catch of claws, despite Sphinx-given wounds being resistant to healing of normal mechanical damage, he had closed the skin in such neat lines that they were bound to turn out as handsome trophies compared to the other scars that rippled over the rest of his patient’s torso.

Newt’s ribs pushed from behind his skin with each rise and fall of his chest. The injury had been far from fatal, but in such a severely compromised state Gellert had chosen to set aside his curiosity and spare the man the experience while conscious. There was plenty of time for that later. Irza had helped with the endeavor of fixing the destruction she had wrought. The sphinx sat obediently by, answering Gellert’s inquiries about ingredients and incantations from potions long memorized.

Irza slid her gaze to the corner of her eye, appraising the man who was contemplating his prisoner.

“You cannot blame me,” she stated flatly, “for thinking that you did not care whether it lived or died.”

Gellert exhaled, the mild scent of wood and mint accompanying the smoke. “I didn’t.”

They sat silent for long minutes, the man in deep thought and the cat in lounging relaxation.

“And how did he taste?” Gellert asked slowly, after another drag of the cigarette. The sphinx tilted her head to him, her dark eyes glittering in the lamplight.

“How do all fearful young beasts taste?” She asked. “I won’t tell you. I’m sure you’ll find out.”

 _Yes,_ Gellert thought, the normal cacophony in his mind quieted by the herb in his lungs. _I suppose I will._

He held the cigarette languidly and wondered how those scarred forearms would look with round burnmarks kissed into them. He blinked, and the urge was gone- but the imagination of parted lips and gasps of pain lingered in his mind.

This had always been the problem.

He tried to be patient. He tried to be gentle. He tried to keep himself distanced, after he learned time and again what fate usually beset those he took an interest in. Oh, he had tried the usual diversions- how much easier would it be if he could take his pick when the mood struck and be rid of these distracting thoughts for a week or month or year? The streets and bars were littered with people the world wouldn’t miss. But even if he found them pretty, there was something missing- something that left him unfulfilled, even in the heat of the moment, that left him bored and repulsed and disappointed.

Worse was when he tried to make up for their dullness by reaching for that spark of connection on his own. Gellert had long ago learned that his aptitude for legilimency far outstripped that of most. Unfortunately, the detrimental effects were hard to gauge until they had already set in, and he felt himself similarly unable to prevent them.

Gellert considered himself a man of discipline and self-control. Still, the toys he played with somehow always ended up broken. It would be best not to waste time playing at all.

Yet here was a toy interesting enough in its own right.

In truth, Gellert did not have solid intentions for Newton Scamander. Yes, he would have made an excellent resource if he had been cooperative or easily-bribed like so many others who bowed before power; but the information Gellert sought from his conversations had been cursory, unnecessary in the grand scheme of things. He knew the obscurus from New York still existed somewhere. If Scamander had it hidden away, it was only a matter of time before his informants among MACUSA unearthed the discovery.

Gellert was likewise confident that taming the obscurus was something he was more than capable of, once it was in his possession- with or without the Magizoologist’s expertise.

In the end, he was more a distraction than anything. A temporary diversion as he tended to a hundred other tasks and directed his vision for the better world he was laboring toward, with or without the help of wizards blinded by naivete or misplaced affection toward their oppressors.

But that distraction grew.

He liked the things he saw inside Newt’s mind. Boring, calm, comforting moments of quiet. They were impractical, and not what he sought, when he was pressed for time and frequency of legilimency- but the host whose memories he witnessed did not seem to be reacting as others often did. Oh, he was troubled by the usual immediate symptoms- the fear, the stress, the mild bodily shock following such invasions- but he was still as sane as could be expected.

And then there was the pain. There was that rare connection, the spark that Gellert had experienced so few times in the past, the taste of what another truly and sincerely felt. What a delicacy, what a blessed coincidence, that someone who might be a perfect outlet for his addictions had wandered straight into his arms.

Further exploration of this theory would be necessary.

Newt remained motionless on the examination table, looking all the world on the brink of death, but Gellert was confident in his ministrations. The daily potion-infused confections and the enchanted wine left to the man had done their work. They had mitigated the damage of outright starvation, kept his skin from going sallow or his body from withering to a corpse. His sinewy form had softened in his near-comatose existence, and he was now just as Gellert wanted him: weak, hungry, addled, hurt, in need, and ready to receive whatever treatment Gellert chose to bestow.

And oh, it was so much more relaxing to be able to play like this. Not like his other guest, who fought and resisted, used up Gellert’s energy and wore through his patience, who required a firmer hand and suffered the more because of it. This one- this one was ever so much more _pliant_. And if he gave up his knowledge, any information buried behind those sweet golden memories, that was just a pleasant prize for work well enjoyed.

The cigarette burned down; the stone in the door glowed in urgency; and the visions in Grindelwald’s head twisted slowly as the possibilities unfolded before him.

…

This time, when the dream came, there was no beast.

The prison was the same- no, not the same. There was blackness, and the vague impression of stone walls and steel bars, but the room’s true appearance was shifting, surreal, only giving the knowledge of- _trapped._

It was not a beast that Newt now shared the dream-cell with. It was a man- a man whose face Newt knew, a man who sat calmly across from him, whose eyes stared intently as he broke the brief silence.

“Do you remember this time?” Percival Graves asked, and the voice of someone other than his captor was almost as much of a shock.

“You’re alive.” Newt spoke, his words far calmer than he expected. “I’ve- been looking for you.”

Percival exhaled in frustration. “You don’t, then.”

“Sorry?”

“You don’t _remember_ , why don’t you fucking _remember-_ “

Graves stopped himself short, closing his eyes and taking in a steadying breath. Newt didn’t know what to say to that. The room refocused a bit- became more solid, more real. _I’m not in pain_ , he suddenly thought, and that only confused him more. Perhaps he was hallucinating. That would be nice. Percival’s words brought his attention back, cutting through the mental fog Newt was getting lost in.

“I know who you are. I thought you had come to save me.” Percival spoke steadily, as though these were lines rehearsed. “I felt your presence, it was so untainted by his usual magic.” He shook his head. “I was wrong, but that doesn’t matter.”

“I’m sorry- you know who I am?”

“This is the seventh time we’ve talked. Try to remember this time. It seems useless to tell you this, I don’t know how to prevent you from forgetting, but please. Try.”

“If you’re telling the truth-“

Graves cut him off, raising his palm and shaking his head with exasperation. “I know you’re wary. You should be, but I haven’t got much time, so you’ll just have to listen. We’ve been through this before.”

Newt made to protest and Graves sighed. “The last time we spoke, you told me about Theseus. Before that, it was your first hippogriff. I could rattle off a dozen intimate facts about your life but I haven’t got the time, and there’s nothing I could say that you wouldn’t suspect Grindelwald of stealing from your mind anyway.” Percival’s words were spoken with quiet, practiced intensity, allowing no opportunity to entertain Newt’s confusion. “Listen for now. I’ve told you all of what I am about to say before. I will try to tell you all of it again.”

“He’s made changes to himself. His body, his mind- maybe he was always this way, I don’t know. He’s powerful. So powerful. I don’t think he can truly control it. Just being near him, it takes a toll. I think being around him for too long makes you crazy. I think he knows that. Have you noticed, there’s no one else? Some people come and go, but no one stays for long. He uses remote magic, casts his will through his followers, goes out alone sometimes if he needs to do it himself.”

Percival paused, eyes unblinking as he frowned at Newt. Newt rather got the impression he was supposed to be taking notes.

“Most of his spells, he does them from here. Special chambers, runes all over the walls, spell circles on the floors, I’ve seen him- I’ve seen him go into locked rooms, felt the pulse of magic, then he comes out hours later looking half-dead. It’s not portkeys, or a floo network. I mean, it might be those as well- there has to be- but it’s some way he’s doing all his work from right here. I cannot imagine the sheer power it must take, day in and day out.”

“Where are you?” Newt blurted, and Percival seemed annoyed by the question.

“You can’t get to me. Now, listen- he’s got sphinxes, two of them-“

“I know.” Newt interrupted, trying to wave his hand dismissively and catch Percival’s attention again. Instead, his arm raised as though in slow-motion, and for the first time he realized he was wearing his coat. He stared, confused, and looked down at the rest of his body.

He knelt comfortably on the floor, his skin tanned and his clothes marked with dirt. _His_ clothes. His hand rushed to his ribs- where no sign of the sphinx’s attack marred his flesh.

“It’s the room. It goes by self-image,” Graves explained, his tone weary but almost forgiving. There was a patience there weighted by pity. “and other factors.”

“That-“ Graves nodded apologetically to Newt’s clothes, “-will eventually change.”

Newt blinked and actually _looked_ at Graves. Of course he should have realized. The man before him was manicured, smartly-dressed, shoes shined and robes smoothly pressed.

He understood roughly what Graves had managed to accomplish. This was a form of psychic communication- tricky, unreliable, often requiring knowledge of dozens of other magical specialties to even hammer out and only functional under very specific circumstances- but, nonetheless, an impressive feat.

“How-?”

“Identity preservation. Meditation. He doesn’t seem to be able to follow me into here. If he knows what I’m doing, he doesn’t let on. But it’s- difficult.”

“How did you find me?”

“I knew you were coming. I reached out for you, that’s all. It was a vision.” Disappointment ghosted in his tone, but he continued as though explaining something mundane. “I misinterpreted. You were captured, not rescuing.”

“I still- I could, couldn’t I?” Newt felt that faint thread of hope as the full realization dawned on him, slowly, as slow as his hand moved in this strange space. “You and me together, we could figure out a way-“

“No. That’s not why you’re here.”

“What do you mean? Of course-“

“No.” Graves repeated, softly, intensely. “I am telling you this for no other reason than the hope that one of us survives long enough to send out this information. There’s a way- somehow. Find it. If you can escape too, fine. But the information comes first, and you must do it quickly.”

“Once he figures out you have nothing else for him, he’ll kill you. He’s going to kill me. Soon, I think. When you have nothing left to give him, you’re finished. He’s gotten all he can from me. Beyond information…I warn you. He’ll play with you. It will be painful. I’m sorry.”

“I think- he’s already got something in mind for me.” Newt’s voice went quiet, memory of the world that waited for him once he awoke entering his thoughts.

“I’m sorry.” Graves repeated flatly. “I hope you escape.”

“Can you help me find a way out?”

Graves shook his head. “I’ve been trying. I’ll continue to try. Please. Remember.”

…

The sound Newt awoke to was a soft, faint, tapping.

His eyes cracked open, vision swimming with the residual effects of whatever potion he’d been given to keep him under. He was laid neatly to rest in the medical chambers, clothes fresh and sheets pulled comfortably halfway up his chest. From this angle, the source of the sound was apparent. A moth fluttered under the clean glass of a bell jar, tattered wings hitting the walls again and again. The sight was unsettling. He wished he could reach out and lift the glass, but his limbs were so terribly heavy and his ribs burned with ember-dull pain.

“You’re not strong, but you are damned resilient.”

Newt didn’t react to the voice, but he did react to the touch of exploring fingers prodding at his ribcage through the cloth of his bedshirt. His sudden shout sobered him, and when his head turned to assess his attacker the sound died in his throat.

“You did beg so prettily for Irza.” Gellert mused, hand trailing lightly- almost soothingly- away from the wound. “I wonder when you’ll beg for me?”

 


End file.
